


most to least

by lokh



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gen, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokh/pseuds/lokh
Summary: Are you Slav?Are you here to torture me?Neither of them are ideal fated words for very different reasons.





	1. most

**Author's Note:**

> given the nature of this ship i have only one thing to say: this is 100% serious. Fight. Me

_Are you Slav?_

Those sorts of words – name asking and whatnot – are one of the most common, right after ‘hello’ or ‘excuse me’ or ‘how are you’ or ‘your total comes to 599’. Naturally, it’s also up there with the most frustrating and absolutely useless in terms of actually _finding_ one’s soulmate.

Slav had to come to terms with this long ago, even back when he was just a wee child and the only ones asking that question were adults trying to figure out who exactly was terrorising the other kids with the probabilities of everything short of apocalyptic, or Slav getting in trouble because he’d been experimenting and somehow made half the playground equipment just up and disappear.

(It didn’t disappear. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t believe that he had managed to send it hurtling out into space by figuring out how to counteract the planet’s gravity, and in any case at that age he wouldn’t have been able to send it back.)

 _That_ was even before everyone had found out that Slav was actually a genius in theoretical engineering and physics all along, at which point he was hearing those words too often to pay them any heed. Not to _brag_ or anything – he can’t help that he’s a) really smart, and b) usually the words were said with a certain degree of disbelief and dread, so it really wasn’t anything to be arrogant about. _Then_ the Galra had caught wind of his expertise, and not only was he totally ambivalent to the concept of soulmates and fated words, he was also _absolutely terrified_ of hearing the words themselves.

The way he thought of it was this:

  * The words ‘are you Slav’ have been said to his face at least three hundred times, and given the average intervals between utterances, was looking at double that within the next feeb;
  * Over a lifetime, he’s looking at having heard those words probably more than he’s heard any other words;
  * Since a person is likely to only ask this once out of any repeated interactions, that leaves his chances of actually _finding_ his soulmate in the wreckage that is the top five most common fated words at...



Approximately 0.00036%.

That’s lower (much, much, _much_ lower) than his chances of dying horribly at any given moment. (That’s a steady 5%, though there have been times where he’s _certain_ it was at least 60% and he’d lucked out in the reality lottery.)

Needless to say, Slav doesn’t spend much time thinking about it and trying to figure out who his hypothetical soulmate is. He’s never been one to get obsessed over them anyway – he’s never been a _people_ person. He had other things to think about – like the probability of this reality being the one where he drowns in a puddle, or the probability of this reality being the one where he dies of an infection due to a splinter – and romantic partners, fated or not, had never been at the forefront of his mind.

Then again, he’s never been any good at discarding possibilities, no matter how small.


	2. least

_Are you here to torture me?_

Growing up an all-round upstanding citizen and general do-gooder, these were _not_ the words one wanted to have scrawled on their arm. Growing up, Shiro assumed that the most likely scenario in which he’d hear these words would be as a joke (though he didn’t think of himself as particularly strict, at least not enough to warrant this sort of complaint). And he _did_ hear it, once or twice, when he was mentoring students at the Garrison, in that very scenario he’d envisioned, but they were never _first words_. That was also worrying – in what situation would those be the first words anyone ever said to him?

It didn’t bear thinking about, really. It’s better to let things happen when they happen, and so he did his best not to draw attention to his right arm as he climbed the ranks and lived his normal life.

Then he got abducted by aliens, and his life became far from normal.

(‘Keith would have had a field day with this. Abducted by aliens,’ Shiro distinctly remembers thinking. He doesn’t remember when he’d thought it – before, during or after – and knowing now what he knows, doesn’t really find it appropriate to share any longer.)

Then he was hearing the words much, much more often than he would ever have liked to hear.

“Are you here to torture me?”

Those were the words that were spat at his feet, that spilled from cowering lips, that were spoken with a terrible resignation when he refused to hold his weapon to their throat. Sometimes they lived, and sometimes they didn’t – their last words to him as they were their first. For all he knew, one of his opponents in the ring _was_ his soulmate, which meant they were either dead or carted off to god knows where only to never see him again.

‘Soulmates’.

The idea was pleasant, sure, but he’d never really been hung up on it. There was the occasional thought of what his soulmate might be like, whether they’d be happy together (or not together, who knows), and now he wonders how he could ever hear these words and think of them as _good_.

And he doesn’t _want_ to be cynical about it; he doesn’t _want_ to be one of those joyless people that condemn the very idea of anyone finding someone so familiar to them that they could be called soulmates. A bit absurd, just short of totally impossible – but Shiro thinks that a bit of hope and optimism isn’t a bad thing.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime and more, he was a Paladin of Voltron.

These days, he doesn’t think of it much. It helps that the words are no longer actually on his right arm, having been cast off in favour of the Galra prosthetic that takes its place. It makes hiding it easier, at least, but it doesn’t change the fact that the words themselves have been carved into the back of his mind, there to sit for eternity. It sits there with the near-constant burden of responsibility, of fear for abusing his authority – what if they were words from a victim of the Galra? What if they were words of a captured Galra officer?

He hasn’t heard them yet, as a Paladin. Not yet.

At this point, he’d rather not have to hear them at all.


	3. mode

_“No, I'm here to save you. I'm a Paladin of Voltron.”_

 

 

 

 

“Dude, Shiro totally _lost_ it back there,” Lance mutters to Pidge later, more a stage-whisper than it is any real attempt at keeping his voice down. In the hangar, it echoes as though he'd been loudly articulating from the start. Pidge just shudders in response.

“Was he like that at the Garrison?”

“How would I know?!”

“I thought your brother knew him?”

At the mention of Matt, Pidge’s expression sours. She crosses her arms, only slightly affronted.

“Lance. We’re talking about Shiro. The man, the myth, the legend. Literally everyone hero-worshipped the guy, _especially_ my brother.”

“So this is the real Shiro – the private face, his darkest secret,” Lance muses, rubbing his chin in a failed and/or facetious attempt at looking contemplative. Pidge rolls her eyes.

“I dunno – it seems like it’d be really hard to get on Shiro’s bad side. You’d have to be really, _really_ annoying. Like...”

“Like Slav?” Lance suggests.

“Like Slav,” Pidge confirms.

“What about Slav?”

They jump, spine going stiff. They turn, slowly - there stands Shiro, brow raised and bemused and still in his armor. This is a befuddling fact, as there had been no footsteps echoing to signal his presence. Pidge is beginning to suspect that the castle plays favorites with its acoustics; Lance is wishing that he didn't try watching that weird Altean horror flick (which, by the way, was _totally_ laughable). They then share a look known universally between siblings and sibling-esque relations: ‘ _play it cool and pretend you know nothing._ ’

“What about Slav?” Pidge echoes, innocently. Shiro looks suitably unimpressed.

“Listen, Slav may be... eccentric,” Shiro states, in a tone that indicates this is far from the first time he’s had this particular talk. Lance doesn’t bother trying to hide his snort of ‘understatement of the decafeeb’; Shiro graciously decides to ignore it. “But try to be nice. He’s helping us with the gravity-generator, after all.”

“Oh, we can play nice,” Lance says, and Pidge is already glaring at him in disapproval. “But I think the real question is, can _you_ play nice?”

Shiro stares. His stare indicates that this is far from the first time he’s had this particular talk.

“That was not my proudest moment.”

“No kidding.”

“Lance,” Shiro says. Lance raises his hands in surrender, whistling. Shiro can only sigh in response. “It was a stressful situation. I admit I didn’t take the best course of action at the time, but I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again. He didn’t deserve to get yelled at.”

Lance and Pidge share a dubious look, and say nothing. Shiro resists the urge to sigh again.

“Still, man, real talk? _Tee-bee-heych_? To be honest? You sort of lost it there,” Lance continues, clearly unwilling to let the subject die. There's concern in his eyes, though, brow worried enough that Shiro finds it inexplicably hard to just flee. “I get that Slav is... eccentric, but it’s not like _we_ aren’t a huge pain in the butt half the time.”

“Speak for yourself,” Pidge mumbles. Lance pushes a palm into her face. He then quickly retracts it before she can chomp down on it, and he continues speaking as though he doesn't have spit slathered on his hand.

“Did he _do_ something? Is it like, something specific about him? Just for, y’know, future reference.”

Shiro’s responding eye-roll is nothing short of exasperated, but he doesn’t immediately abscond so that’s a small victory for the two. Instead his brow furrows, starting as an errant crease before growing into a deep rift, as if even _he_ doesn’t know the answer. His fingers drum on his hip, one-two one-two, before he begins to speak.

“It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do anything. Slav is just...”

“Loveable?” Lance says helpfully. Pidge has given up on trying to moderate him.

“ _Different_ ,” Shiro finally says, though his continued frown says that these weren’t the words he was looking for. “His personality is very different. I guess I’m – just not used to it.”

Admitting this doesn’t do anything in improving Shiro’s disposition. After a beat, his expression even morphs into a slight grimace.

“It's good to always do your best to be kind, but sometimes we can’t get along with everyone, no matter how hard we try.”

The look on Lance’s face is disbelieving – _defiant_ , even – but this time he says nothing, watching Shiro carefully. Pidge just nods along, understanding. There’s always Iverson, after all. Not that she ever tried very hard to get along with him, of course.

“Maybe he’s your soulmate,” Lance says, absently.

Shiro’s heart stops.

In every other reality, he probably immediately dropped dead from cardiac arrest or spontaneous cardiac combustion, but alas.

“Please don’t joke about that,” Shiro intones, painfully blank. Lance shrugs helplessly.

“Just a suggestion,” he says, hands flailing to-and-fro. “I mean, it doesn’t necessarily have to be a _romantic_ bond, right? Just like, them being significant in your life or whatever. And contrary to whatever Slav says, the idea doesn’t become more likely just because you said it out loud.”

“I’m just saying that I’d prefer not to think about it,” Shiro tries, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s starting to wish he’d just walked away the moment he heard Slav’s name being mentioned, in all honesty. “The way we are now – defending the universe – trying to find your soulmate might not be the best idea.”

“That’s fair,” Pidge says, at the same time Lance interjects, “we’ve got the _universe_ at our fingertips, I’d say this is the _best_ time to look!”

“You _know_ that’s not what I meant.”

“He might have a point though,” Pidge says, reasonably. “I’m not saying you _should_ be trying to find them, but it would suck if they turned out to be right under your nose the whole time and then you just never realised it was them.”

“Yeah, look at Keith,” Lance says. Pidge actually turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. “First of all, he doesn't even know that his soulmate is _right there_. Keith literally walks around with his arm on display. Though to be fair, it does say ‘oops, my bad’, which is almost as bad as having ‘it’s okay’. But Hunk has _no_ excuse, it says ‘big man, lean left’! Like, how oblivious can you get?! It’s the universe’s worst soap opera. Oh, and second? Their bond isn’t romantic!”

“Uh, are we piloting the same giant robot, here? Have you _seen_ the way they look at each other when they think they’re not looking? I’m gonna tell them myself if that gets them to stop being so _gross_.”

“Enough, you two,” Shiro butts in, rubbing his temple. It does nothing to stave off the oncoming headache, though it does manage to make the two look decently ashamed of themselves. “Don’t go around gossiping about people’s love lives and let them work it out by themselves. In any case, it’s not the best idea to just bring it up – words can be a sensitive subject for some people.”

 _That_ definitely has them looking deeply chastised – their eyes simultaneously flick to Shiro’s right arm, smooth and metal and very much wordless. Pidge's eyes are flicking about wildly in search of an escape route, and Lance has started scratching his neck. It’s not the most graceful way to end a conversation, but it does its job. Shiro huffs, hands on his hips as he regards them, amused and exhausted.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do right now as Voltron, so unless you suddenly know how to build a super-sophisticated gravity-generator, rest up and take it easy, alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ("i could build a gravity-generator," pidge mutters as they walk away. luckily, this is not the reality in which she attempts to do so and subsequently lead to the destruction of the castleship at a quantum level, and her words never come into fruition.)


	4. median

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter numbers keep changing....... its bc i have no idea where its going but it shouldnt exceed 6. Enjoy

The thing is, Shiro doesn’t actually _remember_ what Slav’s first words to him were.

They were in the middle of a mission, and it had been stressful, after all. He remembers _his_ first words to him – are you Slav? – but that doesn’t really clue him in to the other’s response. It _could_ have been ‘are you here to torture me’, but it’s entirely possible that he’s just projecting to fill in the gaps. Then again, why would he be projecting onto _Slav_?

He stops walking, then – takes a moment to privately berate himself, in the solitude of the hall. Nothing is _wrong_ with Slav. He thinks differently, yes – but he’s also been stuck in captivity for god knows how long. If anyone should understand, it should be _Shiro_. This knowledge only makes his outburst all the more shameful.

It makes Lance’s questions stick stubbornly to the forefront of his mind. He’d considered it before, of course – what _was_ it about him that made him lose his temper so easily? Was it his total lack of priorities? That definitely makes sense. Just remembering the puddle incident is giving him high blood pressure. But is that really all? Shiro’s met his fair share of hormone-high teenagers with their priorities backwards (though admittedly, they’d hardly been in a life-or-death situation), and he’s pretty sure he hadn’t gotten any more heated than usual.

But then, Slav _isn’t_ a teenager. (At least, he thinks so?) That only begs the question of _why_ he’s so fixated on every single terrible potentiality even during a crisis. He’s a smart guy, he’s made that abundantly clear. Shiro finds it hard to believe that he wouldn’t have enough self-awareness to realise he was catastrophizing.

More than that, it was the way that he acts like he can’t _do_ anything about it. He couldn’t even remember if he was capable of _swimming_ , for god’s sake. He was going to wait for the worst to happen to him and he was just going to _take i_ t? It makes him – bitter. Undeservedly self-righteous. He hates it, hates the feeling, but it’s there, and pushing it down won’t make it go away.

Because he knows what it’s like to be thrown to the lions without anyone in your corner. To be backed up against a wall with nothing but your own body to defend yourself. The things he did in order to survive – it was desperation, it was getting the worst thrown at you and doing your best to _deal with it_.

But he knows, he _knows_ that he’s no right to think this way. Their experiences are vastly different, to an extent that even Shiro is unsure of. They’re two different people; their behavior and reactions to situations are going to be different, and in any case, suffering isn’t a competition. It’s clear that his imprisonment affected Slav greatly, and Shiro had to try and understand that. He’d spent a year fighting to stay alive – but as long as he fought, as long as he won, for the most part he was left alone, to do what he wanted up until the day he _couldn’t_.

But Slav...

There’s a distant clatter. Shiro realises that he’s stopped walking, had been staring blankly into the empty expanse completely unmoving. After a moment, he resumes, boots suddenly too loud in the quiet.

Do aliens even have fated words? Coran and Allura never bare their arms, so for Alteans at least, he’s unsure. Then again, it’s entirely possible that their culture is simply more modest regarding soulmates.

If he recalls correctly, the Arusians had words scrawled onto their arm. The people of Balmera appeared to have _multiple_ on their arms. Then again, just as many other species they’d encountered had nothing on their arms. It doesn’t help that many of them also weren’t fond of baring their arms or flesh, Galra included.

It’s strange to think about – aliens and whether they had soulmates. Just over a year ago, he hadn’t known aliens _existed_ ; then soulmates had been the furthest thing from his mind when he actually came face-to-face with them. It’s also strange to realise, very abruptly, that if anyone knew the likelihood of aliens having soulmates, it would be _Slav._

Shiro shakes his head. He’s clearly thinking too much. Maybe the best way to solve this is to just take a well-earned break. The door in front of him slides open, and he steps in to what is apparently the mess hall before looking up.

And, of course, there sits Slav, wide-eyed and holding a mug of what is hopefully not coffee each in three of his hands.

(Shiro is at once immensely glad and _immensely regretful_ that one of the first things Hunk found ‘space substitutes’ for was tea and coffee. Not so much in approximation of taste, but more in caffeine-or-equivalent content. What they _needed_ the caffeine for, Shiro can’t say – he’s almost certain that _Pidge_ is the one perusing it the most, and she is, after all, the one that immediately set about building a coffeemaker.)

“You,” Shiro starts, then stops. He shakes his head again. This is a fight he’s definitely not going to win, and in any case, it looks as though these aren’t the first mugfuls of coffee he’s gotten into his system if the empty mugs on the table are anything to show for it. “Actually, never mind. Is there any coffee left?”

“So _that’s_ what this delicious concoction is called,” Slav says, hitting one of his free palms with a fist. The conversation is getting more and more worrying by the minute. “Also, I’m afraid not.”

Well. That’s probably for the best, anyway, Shiro thinks. Certainly caffeine wasn’t going to be any help in taking a rest. On the other hand, it does mean that Slav likely just drank a whole pot of coffee, not even taking into account how much sweetener he may have used.

“You do know that’s going to keep you awake for a while,” Shiro says, just to make sure. Slav slowly looks down into one of the mugs. It’s empty – he raises a hand and looks into another one.

“Ah,” he says, blinking. “I suspected as much, there was an 80 percent chance that this was the intended effect of the drink. Why else would it have been so _bitter_? Unless it was poisoned. Which is much less likely, but still a concern.”

Shiro takes a very deep breath.

Then he walks over to take a glass for himself, filling it with water.

“I promise it’s not poisoned,” Shiro says, wryly, after downing half the glass. He refills it as he speaks. “That said, I’m not sure how it’s supposed to interact with your, uh... species, so it might not actually have its intended effect.”

“Bytor,” Slav supplies helpfully, sipping at a mug. Then he stops, face aghast. “What if it _is_ poisonous to my species?!”

Shiro refills his glass again, and takes a long drink. Maybe it’s the cool water, but he’s starting to find that Slav’s manner of speech isn’t _half_ as taxing to listen to now that they’re not in the middle of an emergency. Maybe he really _was_ just tired.

“It’s a good thing there’s a 100 percent chance that there’s a working cryo-pod, then,” Shiro says, finally letting himself sit down. Across from Slav, a couple of seats to the side – the mugs are taking up a good amount of space, and in any case it would be uncomfortable for everyone if he decided to sit right next to him.

“That is a very good point,” Slav allows, with a touch of relief. He drinks at another mug, and Shiro is finding it harder and harder to resist the urge to take the remaining mugs off him. “But there is still the above-chance probability that I will die of anaphylaxis before I can get there.”

Shiro raises a brow at that, and despite himself, feels the corner of his mouth begin to turn up in an amused grin. “What’s the chance that’ll happen if one of us carries you instead? Or if we leave _right_ now?”

Slav actually sets down the mugs to think about it. Briefly, Shiro notes with distant concern, each mug is completely empty. “Well, if _you_ were to carry me, certainly it may be a lower chance of death than if it had been another paladin, but it is lower than if you had _two_ robot arms instead of one, and you only have two legs. Swelling and asphyxiating aside, I am capable of moving much faster on foot, and if even _I_ cannot get to the cryo-pod in time...”

Shiro waits. Slav closes his eyes, raising a finger.

Slav’s face abruptly meets the table.

Shiro’s on his feet before anyone can say ‘quiznak’. He immediately reaches a hand over to feel for a pulse – did they even _have_ a pulse in the same place? He moves his hand in front of his beak, tilting his head to the side.

Deep, heavy breathing.

He’s _asleep_.

Shiro slumps down into his seat, heart still jackrabbiting. Of _all_ the times he could have fallen asleep, he chose just after they were talking about his potential death via allergy. At the very least, it’s very in-character. Shiro can only sigh, wondering if his susceptibility to heart attacks increased when his hair went white. Apparently, caffeine _didn't_ have its intended effect on Bytors, and instead put them straight to sleep. Hopefully this wouldn't be an issue with Allura or Coran.

He finishes his water, and, after a minute, walks around the table to haul Slav up and off.

“Well, _now_ I’m thinking about having two robot arms.”


End file.
